


these tornadoes are for you

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Forced Prostitution, M/M, Prostitution, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-09 03:04:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a prostitute, and John can't love him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	these tornadoes are for you

**Author's Note:**

> Written, like everything I write, to a Richard Siken poem. Specifically, A Primer For Small Weird Loves. Written for Party When Dead (Team Coroner)

i. Sherlock is small and weak and an older boy with hands like a chainsaw pushes him into the swimming pool. Then he holds him down. It is the weekend, and Sherlock’s family hate him, so he has stayed at school. Unfortunately so have many other people. And now Sherlock is dying.

Sherlock knows he is dying because his chest is tight, and surely no one can hold their breath this long, no one can hold out forever. He doesn’t mind, because he is wrong and filthy, and in a way, this is penance. Sherlock wants forgiveness, and his core is hollow. He is hated, and therefore, should be gone. He can’t hold on any more.

\-----

ii. The man has blue eyes and dark hair, and cares not a whit about Sherlock’s leather and spiked hair. He doesn’t care about the destruction in Sherlock’s eyes, or the way he sees the world. He sees a fuck, and so he is licking whisky from Sherlock’s wrist and neither of them feel anything.

Sherlock is in the ma’s rented bungalow, which is messy and smells like sex. The man keeps a knife in his pocket and he wonders if he will stab him. It would not be terribly difficult or messy. No one would care, and Sherlock wonders. John would, but there is no John now, that’s later, or now, or then. Sherlock finds time terribly confusing.

The man licks up Sherlock’s spine during sex, and he can feel it hours later. It feels shameful, as if his entire being has been taken apart and altered, only slightly enough to hurt, but not enough to notice. After everything, Sherlock almost asks for the world. But he just asks for his money, to get paid, and some money for the cab ride home.

\----

iii. Sherlock is on a job, and the man on top of him is bigger, and awful, whispers insults into Sherlock’s ears. 

“You are a product, a house to sell, to buy, to rent. You are another dumb bint from a service who has been paid to sacrifice yourself.”

Sherlock’s back is a table, something to hide the ugly truth, something to keep the man comfortable. Something to make him to belong to the man, something to make him the missing  
puzzle piece. 

It is an hour later, and he is biting Sherlock’s neck, pulling his hair. He murmurs words of how no one will ever love him, and he can feel his heart wretch. He has been kicked, punched, and injured. Sherlock will be safe, because this company is a jailroom. 

But it’ s not going to lock the door. It’s isn’t over, it’s just begun. 

\------

iv. The man who has hired Sherlock keeps saying to himself, that the boy is no good, that the boy is wrong. But the man still undresses him, and pushes skin around, to see if he could fit, to see if he could be ugly to him.

Sherlock is a known whipping boy, sent to the men who want something to rough up. The man has dogs, but who will get the whips and who will get the hoops of flame? Sherlock will get both, he thinks.

The man hits Sherlock, and he hits him, and he hits him. He shoves his hands into Sherlock’s body, desire tainting every hit.

“Hush, my sweet. These tornadoes are for you.”

Sherlock wanted to think of himself as someone who could do these kind of things, he had thought he could deal with it, but that’s not the truth. Sherlock Holmes wanted to be in love, but his job happened to get in the way.

\----

v. The boy in the supermarket, with blonde hair, and a soldier’s hands, recoils as if he has been hit. As if he has been hit, repeatedly, but a lot of men, as if he has a history, a story to tell. And Sherlock, who loves knowledge wants to know this tale.

But it’s not his problem. Sherlock has his own body to deal with, his own knee-jerk reactions.

The lamp by the bed is broken, and Sherlock feels what he cannot feel, he is not in touch with these feelings. In the house, everyone speaks softly, so as not to wake another with their madness. It is a windy night and the blinds rattle against the windows. Steam rises from his cup of tea and Sherlock thinks of how things happen all the time, things that have nothing to do with them.

\--- 

vi. Sherlock thinks, that he wants a scene before death, a scene where he will eat the fruit of the tree of knowledge and he will know everything. He wants the scene to be dirty, but no one ever sees what he  
wants, and Sherlock can’t tell them, he doesn’t have the words.

It is then that Sherlock realizes that the one person who loves him, isn’t the one he thought it would be. John cannot, does not love him. The man who loves Sherlock is filthy, and he doesn’t trust him to love him in a way he would enjoy. The boy who loves him the wrong way is filthy, and Sherlock’s resolve is weakening.

vii. Sherlock has a deathbed scene, and there are three men there. One is Sherlock, faltering constantly. Another is the devil, who is played by a man in a westwood suit, the man who loves him the wrong way, so filthy that Sherlock feels sinful being near him. The last man is a soldier, is the man who couldn’t love Sherlock but tried all the same. Sherlock loves him, but can’t have him. 

One by one, the men fall. The devil shoots himself in the head, blood pooling around him. Sherlock falls off the building, though he didn’t die, just seemed to. He was always good at faking. 

The last man falls with his friend, the one he couldn’t love.

\--

viii. There is a stranger in the shelter Sherlock is staying at. He is saying that there are no more couches, and he must sleep in his bed. And Sherlock is panicked, because he needs to warn him. Sherlock will want to get inside him, will want to find out every piece of him and ruin it. The man doesn’t listen and it’s all Sherlock’s fault, he does this, he takes the things he loves and he tears them apart. He takes the things he loves, and he pins them down and pretends they’re his, that they love him.

And so Sherlock kisses him. The man doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away so Sherlock keeps kissing him and she still hasn’t moved. The stranger has been tainted by Sherlock, and he’s frozen. Sherlock kissed him, and he’ll never forgive him, never move on. But maybe now, he’ll leave him alone.


End file.
